


Release

by Dangerousnotbroken



Series: On A Slow Night 'verse [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Dom!Cas, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut and Fluff, Sub!Dean, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2014-11-18
Packaged: 2018-02-26 03:30:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2636399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangerousnotbroken/pseuds/Dangerousnotbroken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean would really rather not hunt by himself.  He hates research, he hates digging up graves with no one to hold the flashlight.  And when it's all over, the bones are burnt and he's washed the grave dirt out of his hair, well then he really doesn't want to be alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Release

Dean’s cellphone rings. He barely hears it over the cacophony of drums and guitar and lyrical howling that is the masterpiece of “Hot For Teacher,” but it’s there amid the treble and the bass. He turns the stereo down just enough to carry on a conversation and answers the phone on what is probably the last ring before it goes to voicemail. He knows he shouldn’t answer the phone while he’s driving, but he does it anyway. Dean’s not really a big fan of pulling over on the side of the highway.

“Hey Dean,” his brother’s voice comes over the line, tinny and crackly. It’s a shit connection, but he can still make out the words.

“Sammy. What’s up?” Dean cradles the phone between his ear and his shoulder long enough to free up his other hand and turns the stereo down further.

“Got a case for ya. How far are you from Baton Rouge?”

“Louisiana? I thought we were meeting up in Texas?” Dean was looking forward to the company. He always preferred hunting with his brother to the alternative of going it alone.

“Yeah, I’m in Houston right now, but it’s a dead end. But I’m pretty sure there’s a vengeful spirit making trouble in a restaurant in Baton Rouge, you should check it out. I’ll text you the details, you can deal with that and then we’ll meet up. Maybe take a couple days off, hit Vegas. I need a break.” Sam sounded tired. Dean didn’t doubt that it was true. He could use a break himself.

“Yeah ok, Sam. Whatever you say.”

“Aw, is the big tough hunter getting lonely on the road all by himself? Call Cas. I’m sure he’ll keep come save your ass if you think you can’t handle this on your own.”

“Shut up, Sammy,” Dean barks, but it isn’t a half bad idea. “Bitch.”

“Jerk,” Sam replies, and then the line goes dead. Dean gets a text a few minutes later, but doesn’t bother to check it. He’ll find a motel first, get some grub, and then he can worry about the case. There’s still miles and miles of highway before he has to think about it.

 

Dean gets maybe two hours closer to the Louisiana border before he caves. He didn’t plan on calling Cas, not at first, but he’s bored and honestly a little lonely and why the fuck not? So he sends up a little prayer, just as awkward as any other time he’s prayed to Cas. It’s like angelic voicemail; he never really knows what to say and it comes out as choppy and disjointed. He supposes it would be easier if he could just get Cas to use a cell phone, but he doubts the angel would even remember to keep the thing charged so it’s sort of moot. Still, prayer is better than nothing. He knows Cas is listening, that Cas can hear him wherever he is. It’s just a matter of whether Cas is going to show up.

“Hey, Cas, it’s Dean,” he starts, like it’s not super obvious, like Cas doesn’t know who’s praying the second he begins the thought. At least, that’s kinda how Dean assumes it works. “I, uh…I’m working a case. In Baton Rouge. Sam’s doing whatever. I think he said he’s in Texas. Anyway, could use some company. It’s nothing huge, not calling in the big guns or anything but, you know, if you’re not busy or whatever, you could come hang out. If you want.” Dean shuts up and turns the radio up before he starts rambling. He’s not sure when he started caring whether he sounded like an idiot when he prays to Cas like this. Cas isn’t one to comment on awkwardness and he doubts he’s going to start now.

He’s expecting an immediate response, he realizes, and he’s kind of embarrassed that he’s disappointed when he doesn’t get it. Cas must be working on something important, he decides. The Will of Heaven, that kind of shit. _Well fuck,_ he chides himself, grumbling under his breath. _Don’t get all teenage angst on me now, Winchester. You’re not some fourteen year old girl waiting by the phone for some asshole to call. Get your shit together._ The roads are clear and traffic is light and he thinks he’ll make good time, be in Baton Rouge before dusk. So he shakes off whatever it is he’s pointedly not having emotions about and shifts in his seat and pops in a Metallica tape. If he’s on the road by himself he might as well make the best of it.

 

The motel Dean finds when he first pulls off the highway is ugly as sin and dirtier than any five that he and Sam have stayed in over the years. He cringes at the sight of stained mattresses propped up against the dumpster as he pulls into the parking lot and he barely slows down enough to register that, yup, there’s hookers lurking at the edge of the lot. He’s back on the street before he can blink. Time was, Dean wouldn’t have thought twice about any of that shit, back when he and Sam hunted with dad, but he likes to think he’s a little more refined now, and he’s got standards. Motel’s got to at least make an effort at pretending it’s not a shit-hole before Dean will stay there now. He’s a fucking classy drifter.

He drives past two more motels that look about as crappy before he finds one he’s at least reasonably certain he won’t catch diseases from. He gets a room and throws his duffel on the bed before finally pulling his phone back out of the pocket of his jeans and checking Sam’s message.

_> >From: Sam_

_Restaurant called Sarah’s Table. 3 waiters dead in the last month, suspicious circumstances. All died after hours, doors locked, no one heard anything. Might be nothing, but check the EMF anyway?_

Dean sniffs. Sounds kinda weak, if you ask him. Probably something much more mundane, like, you know, a serial killer. Totally not their deal. But he’ll check it out anyway.

 

Dean is an idiot, he realizes as he arrives back at the motel just past three am. He’d gone to the restaurant in question for a meal and some recon, and while the burger had not been disappointing, the EMF had squealed the second he turned it on. He should have bounced out of there the second it spiked. That’s what Sam would have said. He should have turned tail and got on the research track right away, figured out who the spirit could have been and maybe just gone for the bones, but _noooooo_ , Dean’s a fucking idiot, and he doesn’t need research. It wasn’t until he’d snuck back in after hours and been assaulted by a ghost in chef’s whites that he’d pulled his head out of his ass and dug in to the history of the place. Digging up graves ranks very low on Dean’s list of things he likes doing by himself, ‘cause there’s no one to hold the flash light and there’s no one to take shifts with the shovel and it just basically sucks, but at least he’d lit the thing on fire and gotten the whole deal taken care of. Now all he wants is a shower and a beer.

Dean gets the frankly genius idea to combine the two, grabbing a can of beer off the six pack he had the foresight to grab, because what kind of an idiot takes a glass bottle into the shower? He’s covered in grave dirt and sweat, and he really just wants to sleep, but anyone who’s ever ganked a ghost knows you don’t go to sleep with graveyard dirt in your hair. That’s just nasty. Mostly he just drinks the beer and stands under the shower head, motionless and relaxed, and lets the mediocre water pressure sluice away the grime that tells the story of his nearly failed ghost hunt. He spares a bare minute to actually wash, then turns the water up as hot as he can handle and drinks the rest of his shower beer in silence before toweling off and stepping out of the steamy bathroom onto the worn carpet of the motel room.

And he nearly drops his towel in surprise because there’s a fucking holy tax accountant sitting on his goddamned bed.

“What the fuck Cas,” he exclaims. “Give a guy a little warning. I’m practically full-frontal here.” Dean crosses the room to his duffle bag and starts rummaging around for fresh clothes.

“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” Cas replies in that gravelly baritone, and fuck, Dean’s blushing. He hopes Cas doesn’t notice but he’s pretty sure Cas notices everything, all the time. “Besides, you called me. I believe you requested that I hang out, as you put it.”

“That was like 12 hours ago. I already ganked the thing. Hunt’s over.” Dean fishes a clean pair of boxers out of his bag and picks the first kinda-clean tee-shirt his hands fall on. “D’ya mind? I’m not gonna hang around in a towel all night.”

“Are you really going to bother getting dressed, Dean?” Dean cocks an eyebrow at the angel and hitches the towel up on his hips. “I don’t see much point in putting pants on if I’m just going to have to remove them in a few minutes.” Cas’ voice is monotone and devoid of emotion like usual, but his eyes give it away. He’s staring at Dean from across the room with a look on his face that says volumes about his intentions for showing up in the middle of the night.

“That so? You think you can just fly in in the middle of the night and I’ll jump on your dick?” Dean turns to face Cas, quirking his lips into a mocking smile.

“That is generally the way things progress, yes.” Cas replies with his own smile, and Dean sputters. “Based on our past encounters, I can say with reasonable certainty that my advances will be…reciprocated.”

“Well, that’s nice. Hope you’ve picked up on some of my more endearing qualities, too. Hate to think you just like me ‘cause I’m a sure thing.”

“That’s not…Dean, you can’t possibly think…” Cas’ head tilts to the side and his eyes narrow. Dean can’t help but notice how attractive he is when he’s confused.

“Jesus, Cas, you still haven’t managed to pick up a sense of humour, have you? Never pegged you for insecure.” Dean abandons his selected clothing and crosses the room to where the perplexed angel is seated. “Take your coat off. Stay a while.” Cas stands as Dean approaches, stripping the trench-coat from his shoulders and tossing it at the foot of the bed. “Honestly I just called you for company, but if you’ve got other things in mind, I’m game.”

Dean leans in close, letting his lips brush teasingly against the angel’s mouth. He can feel the heat of Cas’ breath as he hovers just a hair’s breadth from a kiss he knows they both want. It’s Cas who closes the distance, his tongue darting out to beg entrance to Dean’s mouth and when it’s granted, Dean’s hands come up to tangle at Cas’ hair. The towel falls to the floor, forgotten and ignored.

“You’re wearing too many clothes, Cas,” Dean murmurs as he kisses Cas’ jaw. The angel’s perpetual five o’clock shadow scratches at his own stubble as he moves to place a soft kiss behind Cas’ ear. He releases his grip on Cas’ hair and drags his hands down to work at his tie, loosening the crooked knot until he can tug the ends free. He immediately goes to work at the row of buttons on Cas’ shirt but Cas’ hands come up to grasp his wrists.

“What gives?” Dean queries, confused, but Cas just stares at him for a moment and then glances down. Cas is now completely naked, his clothes lying in a heap a few feet away. Dean grumbles. “I hate it when you do that,” he says, but his heart’s not in it because honestly, after a hunt, all he really wants to do is drink and fuck, and he’s already had a beer so what is he really complaining about, anyway?  
“It’s tedious, removing clothing the traditional way. I simply advanced the process.” Castiel brooks no further nonsense on the subject, his mouth claiming Dean’s in a kiss that has them both dizzied before long. He’s still holding Dean’s wrists like he’s forgotten he grabbed them but his grip doesn’t loosen as he delves into Dean’s mouth with his tongue, tasting the beer on his breath that doesn’t quite mask the taste that is Dean himself. Dean struggles just a little. It’s not that he minds the restraint, not really. It’s just that Cas is right there in front of him and he wants to touch, wants his hands all over his angel and he _can’t_. It’s driving him crazy.

Cas pulls back to look at him, his face the very picture of lust as he stares, licks his lips. He’s practically eating Dean alive with those deep blue eyes and even though he’s not even actually _doing_ anything, Dean can’t help the punched-out moan that escapes his lips under that scrutiny. He sees all the things Cas has done to him in those eyes, every kiss, every lick, every thrust, every touch reflected back at him in the way Cas devours him with his eyes, and he suddenly feels like his legs are going to buckle.

Whatever it was Cas was looking for in his eyes, he seems to have found it, because the moment is over and he dives back in, dropping his lips to mouth at Dean’s throat. The wet, open-mouthed kisses are hot on his freshly washed skin and he’s moaning his approval, the sounds deepening with each feverish kiss. Cas drags his teeth a little as he reaches Dean’s collarbone and it’s a new sensation, one that sends a shiver up his spine and yeah, he kinda likes it. He tries to reach out to grab Cas by the hips, pull him closer but he can’t.

“Damnit, Cas,” he swears, twitching his arms against the truly remarkable strength Cas wields. It’s futile, he knows. If Cas doesn’t want to let him go, there’s not a damn thing Dean can do about it. It’s a little thrilling to think about now that the idea has presented itself. Cas grips his wrists a little tighter and Dean swears he hears Cas laugh against his throat. “What’s so funny?” he asks, but it comes out softer than he planned, embarrassingly whiny.

“Do you really want me to let go?” Cas answers his question with another question before his tongue darts out to soothe the skin he’s just sucked a purple mark into. Dean can’t remember the last person who left a mark on his skin like that. He can’t remember the last person he wanted to.

“No,” Dean breathes, and it’s not until he says it that he realizes it’s true. He doesn’t want Cas to let his arms free. He wants Cas to do whatever he wants. Dean wants to be touched and teased and fucked in whatever way his angel wants, and if that means letting Cas restrain him, well then, sign him up.

“Hmph,” Cas huffs against the skin of his chest as he works his way down to lavish attention on a nipple. Dean can’t help but lean into the attention when Cas’ teeth close on the left one, biting just short of painfully hard and flicking his tongue out to soothe the angry flesh left in his wake. Castiel knows how to push all his buttons. “I didn’t think you would mind,” he admits, easing up on his ministrations for the brief time it takes to speak the words and move his mouth across to the other nipple. “But I thought it important to ask. You’ll tell me to stop if I go too far, won’t you Dean?” The question has a serious edge to it but Cas still keeps his voice light and teasing. Dean is momentarily at a complete loss for words. He’s temporarily excused from his senses as Cas’ mouth closes on his other nipple. The wet heat of his tongue is an insane distraction and Dean can’t focus on anything other than the tantalizing combination of pleasure and pain as he bites and nips and licks and sucks. He opens his mouth to try to reply but all the sound he can make is a drawn out groan that hangs in the air like an echo. Cas seems to sense his level of distraction and pulls his mouth away, standing back up to his full height and catching Dean’s eye with a serious set to his mouth.

“I have recently become aware of the concept of a _safe word_ ,” Cas intones, and Dean feels his face, hell, his whole body flush. He’s not about to admit out loud that he’s toyed with the idea before, but in his mind he’s hollering with delight. Dean’s a bossy sonofabitch, and he knows it. His hunts are not democracies, they’re dictatorships, but when you get right down to it what he really wants is to be touched, and teased, and told _no_. And if Cas is down to play in that particular league, well then, Dean’s signing up for the entry draft. He’s pretty sure speaking is out of the question though, that all he’s going to be able to manage is strangled half syllables and incoherent stammering, so he nods enthusiastically while never once breaking eye contact with Cas.

Cas’ laugh slips through his lips almost unintended. It’s soft and gentle, not unkind, but Dean feels the blush on his face deepen. He hadn’t meant to seem so eager. Still, can’t take it back now. He’s still not sure what Cas has in mind, but he’s pretty sure that’s the point, so he opens his mouth and says the first thing that comes to mind.

“Kansas.”

Cas nods, almost perfunctory in his sharp, economical motion. The word hovers between them for a moment like a tangible barrier before Cas cuts through it with his own voice, sharp like the edge of a knife.

“Kansas,” he repeats, and Dean only has time for the slightest of nods in acknowledgement before he’s spun around, Cas’ grip on his wrists letting loose at the last moment to catapult him backwards onto the cheap bedspread. He lands with a grunt and just barely has enough time to orient himself before Cas is on him, lips crashing together in a fierce and bruising kiss that Dean wouldn’t stop if he could. He’s vaguely aware that his hands are finally free and he indulges himself, grasping greedily at every inch of skin he can find, from chest to shoulders to ribs to arms. One hand slithers around to grab harshly at Cas’ hair and tugs him downward, briefly denying Cas any chance to pull up for air as he forces their mouths together. Cas’ moans are swallowed up by Dean’s hungry mouth as he licks desperately; trying to touch and taste everything he can before his hands are inevitably dragged away.

He’s right to see it coming. Cas lets him have a bare moment of control, of touching whatever he wants and controlling the pace of the kiss, before he pins Dean’s hands to the mattress. He makes a show of struggling but they both know he has no real desire to break away; it’s the illusion of oppression that sets Dean’s blood to boil in this moment. Dean sighs into the attention as Cas’ mouth latches onto his throat again with teeth grazing so gently he barely feels them except in contrast to the soft touch of his lips and the firm unyielding pressure of his tongue. He’ll bear marks in the morning. He won’t care in the morning.

Cas’ weight shifts off the bed abruptly like he’s just remembered what he’s meant to do. He returns after only a scant moment with his tie in hand and Dean’s breath catches in his throat. Dean crosses his arms above his head without being asked, because he knows it’s what Cas wants but also because _he_ fucking wants it. Cas takes his time tying the knot, gently wrapping the tie around both wrists before looping it through the slats on the headboard and knotting it securely. He takes a moment to check the tension on Dean’s wrists, and once he’s satisfied it’s not too tight, not going to cause any damage, he sits back and surveys his work.

There’s a hunger in Castiel’s eyes that Dean finds nearly unsettling. It’s unfamiliar on a face that is usually so stoic, so implacable. Dean waits it out because he has no choice but after lengthy moments the attention becomes too much and he begins to squirm. Cas’ eyes don’t leave his face for even a second so he turns his head to the side, tears his eyes away and lays his cheek against the pillows, letting his eyes slide closed in reprieve from the focus he’s suddenly aware he has to bare.

Cas’ hand reaches out to grip his jaw with strong fingers, forcing his gaze back to face Castiel and he wants to close his eyes again but some part of his brain demands to look, demands to see the face that’s in control. He stares at Cas with furrowed brow and downturned mouth and Cas looks back at him like he doesn’t like what he’s seeing.

“You’re beautiful,” Cas whispers softly. “Don’t you see it?” Dean struggles to shake his head, because no, he doesn’t, never has, and doesn’t think he ever will. Dean knows what he is. He knows what he’s done. He’s the furthest human thing from beautiful. Cas breathes in sharply and he looks like he might collapse in on himself. It’s almost as if he’s hurt by Dean’s denial. “Let me show you,” he commands, and as much as Dean wants to deny it, he’s bound and pinned and complicit.

Cas drops his head down to kiss Dean again, softer than before, more tender. His lips brush gently against Dean’s at first, drawing away just as Dean feels himself trying to lean into the affection. Cas is never far away though, even when their lips don’t touch. Their lips are touching or his hands are caressing Dean’s arms or his shoulders or his chest, or his mouth is on Dean’s throat. Always something. He’s never alone. Cas is straddled over Dean’s hips, his bare flesh a warm temptation that Dean can’t help move against even trapped as he is but every time he tries to chase the friction, Cas lifts his own hips and he’s thrusting against air.

“Cas…” he whines, and he tells himself it just slipped out, that he never meant to. Cas sucks another mark on his throat in response, a perfect pair to the one he got earlier. Dean’s thrilled at the thought of the gorgeous shade of purple he’s wearing now. It occurs to him that the marks are a claim, a visual reminder that he’s Cas’ now and he’s never thought of it quite like that but yeah, he is, isn’t he?

Cas glides down his body sinuously, letting his hands drag slow and soft across the planes of his chest as he comes to settle between Dean’s legs. His mouth is hot on Dean’s inner thighs, each kiss and lick proving over and over how much control he has, because if their roles were reversed Dean would not be able to stop himself from wrapping his lips around Cas’ cock and yet here Cas is mere inches from Dean’s hard, leaking dick and he’s barely aware of it. His tongue grazes across Dean’s balls almost accidently and his hips jerk in response, chasing whatever sensation he can grab. As soon as he gets close though, Cas pulls away. There’s a brief moment where he can almost feel skin on skin and then it’s gone.

“You want to touch me?” Cas asks, teasing, but Dean doesn’t care what he really means by the question. He knows his answer.

“Yes, God Cas, yes!” he breathes. Dean bites his lower lip to keep himself from saying anything more. He knows what Cas thinks of that gesture though, so he’s not surprised at the low growl he gets in response.

“I’ll let you touch me,” Cas tells him. Dean can’t see how, tied to the bed as he is, but Cas brings himself up to kneel astride Dean’s chest and he starts to get the picture. Cas’ cock is tantalizingly close to his lips now. He can see the slick sheen on the head, can tell without even touching how hard Cas is for him now. Cas grips himself around the base and brushes his cock against Dean’s lips. Dean instinctively darts his tongue out to lap against the swollen head. He licks hungrily as Cas keeps himself just out of reach, letting just barely get his lips involved before he pulls back. Dean whines in response. He’s not even trying not to anymore. He wants it.

Cas brings himself closer this time and Dean manages to take him in his mouth, letting his tongue swirl around the head as he cranes his neck to take Cas in further. He’s pleased at the sigh Cas gives in response, so desperate to show Cas his affection with whatever tools are at his disposal All he has now is his mouth, so he goes to work, licking and sucking, letting Cas thrust into his mouth. He’d take Cas deeper if he could, grip his hips and draw Cas down into his face; swallow him down with enthusiasm as he groans around his length. He can’t though, so he does the best he can with limited resources and he’s rewarded with the glorious moans he coaxes out of Cas’ mouth.

Cas draws back suddenly, pulling himself out of Dean’s mouth and shimmying back down Dean’s outstretched body. He’s produced a bottle of lube from somewhere in the room and Dean thinks, Dean _knows_ what’s coming next, so he’s entirely surprised when Cas perches above him and slides a slick finger into his own ass instead of Deans. And tied down as he is, he can do nothing but watch with hungry eyes as Cas thrusts into himself, working himself open with a look of reckless debauchery on his face, moaning and canting his hips and putting on a show of it. Dean groans desperately. It’s all over now, he can’t fucking take this. Cas is making such filthy noises, mewling and moaning, pleading Dean’s name like it’s a fucking prayer as he works wet fingers into himself and it’s more than he can handle. He’s going to die here, hard up and desperate, while an angel of the lord fingers himself just out of Dean’s reach.

Cas lets out one last cry before he settles himself back down. He shudders a little, like reality is settling back in and it’s unnerving, and the look on his face when he meets Dean’s eyes again is predatory like he’s never seen before. Dean loves it. Cas takes his time slicking Dean up, dribbling lube onto his neglected cock and stroking him gently, teasingly, until Dean’s writhing beneath him on the mattress, eyes tight and head thrown back as he loses himself to the bliss of it.

“Look at me, Dean,” Cas commands. He’s lining himself up, teasing at his own slick hole with the head of Dean’s cock as he speaks, but he waits until Dean meets his eyes before pressing Dean into himself, sliding down so slowly that the breath Dean holds while he’s doing it threatens to make him dizzy in the meantime. He remembers to breathe again when Cas bottoms out, seating himself nimbly over Dean’s hipbones, and he settles there, presses his hands to Dean’s chest and letting himself adjust to the feeling of being speared on Dean’s cock for a long moment before anything else happens. And then Cas, the fucker, wiggles his goddamned hips, grinding himself down and letting his mouth fall open in a silent cry of pleasure.

Dean’s hands may be tied, but he realizes his legs are free, and he’ll be damned if he’s just going to lay there. He rolls his hips languorously upward, barely enough to qualify as a thrust but enough to remind Cas who’s riding who. Cas slams his hips down in contest, and then it’s Dean who’s been reminded of the power dynamic, because Cas is infinitely stronger than he is. Cas begins to thrust down onto Dean’s dick in earnest, spearing himself enthusiastically as Dean degrades into a moaning, whimpering mess beneath him, capable only of wordless howls and futile grinding of hips. Cas is glorious as he rides him, sitting up tall and arching his back to display the beauty of his musculature, the strong tone of his core and lean cords of his biceps. He throws his head back as he rocks his hips, taking Dean deep, so deep with every thrust. Every sound that comes from Cas’ mouth is pure music. Every movement of his body is a choreographed dance, perfect and tantalizing and Dean doesn’t even want to blink because he can’t bear to miss a split-second of it.

He’s dimly aware of how close his release is looming as Cas shifts his momentum, changing from a sultry grinding roll to an aggressive bounce, slamming his hips straight down over and over and over. Dean tries to speak but all that comes out is a keening moan, a needy, broken noise that vaguely resembles Cas’ name. His shoulders ache as he realises he’s tugging on his bonds. He wants to grab Cas’ hips, lend his strength and drive him home harder, faster, deeper. Maybe he manages, to say as much, or maybe he just knows, but Cas accomplishes this feat somehow, turning his thrusts into a rough rolling grind that has them both startled at the intensity.

Cas comes first, untouched, spilling across Dean’s belly as he howls out Dean’s name and the rhythm of his hips breaks like waves over the shore, unpredictable and unstoppable as the tide itself. He’s so beautiful when he comes. His face lights up with joy and passion and unbridled pleasure, Dean thinks that even if he wasn’t close, he’d chase him over the edge just to see that face. He groans desperately as he follows, body tensing and arching beneath Cas’ as they slow to a crawl, hard thrusts giving way to slow, tender rocking, and finally Cas collapses atop him, heedless of the mess now trapped between their bellies.

He leans in to kiss Dean, just once, long and slow and sweet, before his deft fingers work the tie loose and Dean’s arms are finally free. He rolls his shoulders to work out the stiffness that’s settled in from being in one position for so long. Cas coaxes him to roll over onto his belly. He doesn’t protest even a little as strong hands press and prod and soothe away the aches and pains he’s earned this night, peppering the skin with soft chaste kisses.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers against the sweat drenched skin of Dean’s neck, and Dean murmurs a protest but Cas ignores it. “You’re perfect,” Cas mumbles, and Dean flat out denies it, tries to squirm away. He’s neither, he thinks, and he can’t understand where Cas would ever get the idea.

“You’re mine,” Cas announces, his voice clear and proud and honest, and Dean doesn’t argue, because it’s true, and Cas is his, and he’d never have it any other way.

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me remind you that this is a work of fiction and the heat of the moment is the wrong time to start having conversations about safe BDSM. If that's a thing you're going to dive into with someone, remember, safe, sane, consensual, and it's probably best to talk about limits and triggers and comfort zones when no one is all worked up about things.


End file.
